


Fly Down

by cliffkiffle



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cliffkiffle/pseuds/cliffkiffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Peter Pan has always been synonymous with pandemonium, and I was stupid enough to let him in. I think of him on the balcony, his eyes gleaming in the glow of his lighter, jaw clenched around an insult. He is anarchy and chaos, which is exactly the reason I cut him from my life in the first place. Still, three years later, chaos has a way of creeping up on me."<br/>Wendy Darling hates Peter Pankhurst. No, really. He’s selfish, arrogant, and a drug-dealer to boot. She and her brothers are better off without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Altercation

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for drug & alcohol consumption, swearing and future sexual scenes
> 
> Also, in case it's unclear:  
> Sly = Slightly  
> Teddy = Tootles  
> Cole & Nolan = the twins  
> Lily = Tigerlily  
> Bella = Tinkerbell

### Wendy

“Remind me, when does school finish?” Lily asks for the third time. She unwraps a stick of gum, throwing it into her mouth with a bored sigh.

For the third time, I tell her, “half three.”

“Can you _imagine_ ,” Lily says, “being at school every day from half eight till half three? What a waste of time.”

“We can _all_ imagine it,” says Bella, frowning, “because we _all_ did it together — at this very school — for like ten years.”

“Did we? I’d blocked that out.”

We are waiting outside St Barrie’s for my brothers to finish school. It’s Friday afternoon — and their birthday. My friends and I have planned the evening for them.

“We are too old,” Bella announces, “to be hanging around outside school. Only losers do that.”

“Yeah, and speaking of,” says Lily, staring very hard and very angrily at something behind me, “What are _they_ doing here?”

My heart sinks. Lily reserves that tone of voice for one group of people. Sure enough, when I turn, the Lost Boys are approaching the gates of St Barrie’s. Sly is in the front, and his ever-present smirk widens when he spots us. He bends his head to whisper something to the dark and dangerously handsome Teddy, whose hands are buried deep in his pockets like he’s got something precious in there. Dust, no doubt. Curly is wearing sunglasses even though it’s winter; he must be hungover, or high, or both. Hannibal — who, for serial killer reasons, prefers to be known as Nibs — flicks a cigarette stub from his fingers, almost setting fire to some poor Year Twelve’s rucksack, and immediately lights up another. The newest members, Nolan and Cole Doyle are in the year above my brothers, though obviously they’ve skipped school today in favour of furthering their criminal records. I wonder why they’re headed back to school right as the day ends.

And, of course, there at the back is Peter Pankhurst, aka Pan. Don’t be fooled by the way he’s trailing along behind the others; he’s the ringleader of this posse. I can’t believe he’s wearing an honest-to-God leather jacket. I also can’t believe how good it looks on him.

“Dude, look at his jacket,” I say to Bella, to distract myself. “He is such a wannabe-gangster.”

She snorts. “It’s like, brand new. _Such_ a poser.”

“Careful, B. Chat shit get hit,” says Lily, and the three of us dissolve into giggles. In the distance, the school bell rings.

“I hope they don’t take long,” Bella says. “They’re quite often late, your brothers.”

“Let them be as late as they like. It’s not every day you turn seventeen.”

I’m keeping half an eye on the Lost Boys hovering near the gates. As I watch, Peter detaches himself from the group and comes towards us.

“Oh, shit. Don’t look now, Pan’s coming our way.”

Of course they both look anyway.

“I hate this fucking city,” Lily mutters through gritted teeth. “Can’t go a single fucking day without running into that arsehole.”

We square up, shoulder to shoulder.

“Ex one, ex two,” Pan nods at Bella and Lily, who bristle with indignation. “Darling.”

“What do you want, Pan?”

“Nothing really. Haven’t seen you lot round here in a while.”

“No, not since we graduated. Unlike you, we out-grew school.”

“What are you doing here — trawling for under-age girls?” Bella asks sweetly.

“Nah, I draw the line at jailbait,” Peter says absently. He’s rolling a cigarette. “Though that’s not an enforced policy,” he adds, eyeing Curly, who in turn is eyeing a girl who can’t be more than fifteen.

“Disgusting,” Lily announces, and stomps off to berate Curly.

“Dude,” I interject, “Could you not smoke right in front of me? You know I hate it.”

“I know. And maybe I would care, but two years ago, you pretty permanently destroyed the part of me that was capable of doing so.”

Bella snorts. “You’re such a drama-whore.”

From the corner of my eye, I spot Sly and Teddy looming over Lily. I elbow Bella, and we’re beside Lily in a matter of seconds.

“Get away,” Bella says, her voice low. Her hand flickers toward her back pocket, and I really don’t want to know what kind of weapon she’s got hidden in there.

“She started it,” Teddy says.

Now the rest of the Lost Boys are clustering round us, including Peter. A lot of kids are starting to stare.

“Girls, not today,” I plead.

“Why not today?” Sly challenges. “I’ve always wanted to fight you, Lily.”

“And seven of you against three girls is the only way you’re sure you’ll win?”

Sly growls, and Teddy takes a step closer, till he’s right on top of us.

“You ladies need to think about keeping your mouths shut.”

Lily spits at him.

“You fucking bitch—”

“Guys! _Guys_!” Peter inserts himself between us and his friends. “Darling’s right. Do we really wanna be the guys who beat up some girls outside school?”

Nibs and Sly exchange a glance, but Teddy glares at Peter.

“Seriously, Pan. You want us to walk away because you _still_ have a crush?”

“No, T,” Peter rolls his eyes, “I want you to walk away so you won’t get arrested. Again.”

“Wendy? What’s going on?” Fantastic. The last thing I need is for my brothers to witness this, and here they are, on time for once in their lives. Their presence has a purpose, though; as much as the Lost Boys hate me, they’re inexplicably besotted with Jonny and Michael. Maybe they’re hoping that my brothers will join them one day. Obviously that’s not gonna happen while I’m alive. But because they’re trying to make a good impression, the Lost Boys back off.

“Hey, babes! Are you ready for tonight?” I pull Jonny into a hug, ruffling his hair.

Michael is still gazing suspiciously at the others.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Came to wish you happy birthday, man!” Peter says, holding out his fist for Michael to bump. “So you going out tonight, then?”

“Nah, Wendy won't let us use fakes,” Jonny says. “Just a house party at hers. You guys should come.” He looks at Peter, eager and completely unaware that this invitation is madness.

Bella and Lily stare at Jonny, incredulous. Even Michael can tell that it’s not a good idea. But Jonny’s always been an idealist. He just wants Peter and me to get along, like we did when we were little.

“Alright, we’ll try and swing by,” Peter says after a beat.

“Lil, you drive,” I say, tossing her the keys. “I’ll catch you up in a mo. Just want to talk party logistics with Pan here.”

I wait until my brothers are out of earshot and then turn on Pan. He’s dropped the friendly act, grinning in a way that worries me.

“House party at yours,” he says, “looking forward to it.”

“Listen up, arseholes, my brothers are seventeen today, and they get to choose who’s coming to their party, but I have _limits_. That means no Sly, Curly, or Teddy — just Pan, Nibs, and the twins. No Dust. No illegal substances of any kind. If you break any of my shit, or upset my siblings, or even look at an under-age teen the wrong way, I will hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Peter echoes, a little condescending.

“Bella’s taught me a few tricks,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Okay, alright, no castration, please,” Peter holds up his hands, an affectation of surrender. “Anyway, we want Michael and Jonny to have a good time as much as you do. They’re like my brothers.”

“No,” I correct. “They are _my_ brothers.”

 

### Peter

As Wendy walks away, Nibs whistles.

“Fuck,” he says, “She _hates_ you.”

“Oh, does she? I hadn’t noticed!” I scowl at him, then turn to face Teddy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he starts.

“You have a _record_ ,” I say dangerously. “There’s only so fucking much I can do, Ted, and if you get done for GBH I don’t have any connections that will help you. And Sly, why the fuck are you always egging him on?”

Sly shrugs, looking, for once, somewhat ashamed of himself.

“And you two, make this quick, we have places to be,” I remind the twins as they head off toward the school.

“Sorry, are we off to Crossbones at fucking four pm?” Nolan throws over his shoulder as he and Cole stride away. “The fuck are you looking at?” I hear him add, and a knot of school-kids scatter out of the way of the Doyle brothers.

“Mate,” Curly says, placing a hand on my shoulder, “mate, mate, _mate_.” I sigh.

“Curly,” I say, my voice low, “are you high?”

“Only,” he says, “a tiny bit.”

It’s mid-afternoon and the fact that my best friend is high is the least of my problems. Still, though, it’s not ideal.

“Pan, he’s a _mess_ ,” Nibs mutters. He flicks his cigarette to the floor, stamping it out neatly. “Can we chuck him?”

I have the same thought, half the time, but for all his fucked-up faults — of which Curly has many — he’s been my friend since we were eight. Plus, he’s the best Dust manufacturer I’ve ever met. I can forgive him a few things.

“ _Mate_ ,” Curly repeats. We all look at him, waiting for his next words. “Are you going, then? To that party?”

I look at Nibs, who shrugs.

“Don’t see why not.”

“Shit,” Teddy says. “Right into the banshees’ nest.”

Banshees. So-called because while Lily, Bella, Wendy, and their flock of friends are pretty, you don’t really want to listen to them talk. Obviously Teddy coined that delightful phrase.

Sly’s laugh is gravel and smashed glass, harsh against the mild, blue-skied afternoon. “You’re an addict, Pan. You know that, right?”

“ _I’m_ an addict?” I raise my eyebrows. “And what, exactly, am I addicted to?”

“Other than nicotine and Dust? Trouble, Pan,” Nibs says.

“Was gonna say girls,” mutters Sly, “but yeah, trouble, okay.”

“Yeah, like the four of you are completely innocent on any of those counts.”

“ _I_ am,” Sly mutters, “as you well know, Pan.”

The Doyles are heading towards us, school bags slung over their shoulders, matching satisfied grins on their faces.

“Thank fuck for that,” I say, as they reach us. “Right, Nolan, Cole, Nibs, we’re going back to mine. I wanna know exactly how much Dust the two of you have in there.” I eye the rucksacks. “And Sly, whatever the fuck you and Teddy had in mind this evening, cancel it. You’re babysitting Curly.”

Sly scowls, but he nods.

“Fuck that,” Teddy says loudly. “I’m coming back to yours, Pan, and I’m having your vodka while you’re at the _soiree_.”

“That’s a birthday gift,” I say, “For Jonny and Michael.”

“I wouldn’t mind giving Michael a present,” Cole says, low.

“Wrong twin,” says Nolan, as he digs a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Sly hands him a lighter. “Jonny’s the one who swings your way.”

“Let’s go,” I say. Pretty soon teachers are going to be emerging, and they won’t be pleased to see their worst ex-students at the gates. “Curly, be sober by tomorrow, yeah? We’ve got work to do.”

“All right, love,” Curly tips an imaginary hat my way before Sly shepherds him away.

“You’re a saint, Sly!” I call after him.

“He’s something,” Teddy mutters.


	2. Pandemonium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I glance at Peter and catch him glancing at me.
> 
> He smiles, slow, lazy, condescending.
> 
> “Go inside, Darling. Enjoy the party.”
> 
> “I’d prefer to keep an eye on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Becky, who proofread and workshopped this for me so amazingly. You don't have ao3 so you might never see this, but you're the best.

### Wendy

The Lost Boys said they’d be here, but I know better than to take Peter at his word. This kind of thing — a tame house party, not a whiff of drugs — is really not their scene, so I’m hopeful that they won’t come. But of course, they turn up, because I guess Peter really has nothing better to do than fuck around with my life. By the time they arrive, my brothers are already drunk and I’m on my way there, so their presence isn’t nearly as intolerable as I’d have thought. It helps that I disinvited the most obnoxious of the boys, barring Peter.

The twins make a beeline for Michael as soon as they enter, engulfing him into one of those bro-hugs that St Barrie’s boys are so fond of, before settling down with a group of kids and a handful of beers. Jonny is engrossed with a boy in the corner of the room, and doesn’t even notice his guests of honour arrive. Nibs goes straight through to the balcony to smoke.

“Wendy, would you deal with Pan? I can’t believe he’s actually in our home, let alone having to talk to him.” Bella shades her eyes like she’s already hungover, when in actual fact she’s barely tipsy.

I sigh, gulp down the remainder of my drink, and slam the glass onto the table.

“Pan.”

“Darling.”

“Glad you could make it. Don’t feel obligated to stay.” I gaze past him to the still-open door.

“I just got here, and you want me to leave?” He kicks the door shut. “I brought a present, and everything.”

I eye the bottle he sets down on the kitchen counter.

“It’s already been opened.”

“Yeah. Teddy,” Peter sighs, as if that explains all.

I stand by the microwave, arms folded, trying to keep an eye on all four Lost Boys at once.

“You gonna be a buzzkill all night?”

“Yup,” I say tersely. “As long as you’re in my house, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“What if I need the loo? Or meet a lovely lady with whom I’d like some private time?”

“Then I’ll be right outside the door.”

“Pervert. Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing, Darling.”

I unscrew the cap of Peter’s vodka, pouring myself a generous amount. I’m probably going to need the whole bottle to myself in order to suffer through this.

“Listen, Darling, how ‘bout you show me your room?” Peter has stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the room behind me, his voice low. I’m close enough to see stubble on his jaw. “And I can find out _exactly_ what you’re into.”

“Very funny.” I push him away, but not before I catch a whiff of his body spray — the same stuff he used to wear back in school. For a second, I’m fifteen again, with a hopeless crush on an unattainable boy. The sensation passes, but I’m left with an odd fluttering feeling in my chest.

He shrugs, and starts across the room. I follow swiftly after. As we pass Lily and Bella, the pair giggle, raising their glasses to me.

“Where are you going?”

“To the balcony,” he says, “for a smoke.”

“So you are not,” I say, sliding the screen door half-shut behind us, “even going to _talk_ to my brothers? Who are, after all, the reason you’re here?”

“In a bit,” he says. “They seem busy.”

Nibs is still on the balcony. He hands Peter his lighter and nods a greeting to me.

“Alright Darling? You’ve got a nice place here.”

“Lecter,” I say, with a genuine smile. “The view’s quite something, right?”

“I’ve never understood you two,” Peter says, a little petulantly.

“You’re jealous,” Nibs says, “Because you’ve never had an amicable ex before.”

“Nibs,” Peter says: a warning. Nibs winks at me.

“Keep him out of trouble,” he says, pointing at Peter. 

“Doing my best,” I say tersely.

“And,” Nibs turns to look at his friend for a long moment. “You know what I’m thinking, Pan.”

“Yeah, don’t say it, then,” Peter mutters, looking out across the city.

Nibs slides the door almost shut behind him. I sigh as Pan takes long, careless drags of his cigarette. The smell of it is bitter and sultry, and I have a strange urge to snatch it from his fingers and inhale. The impulse passes, as it always does, when I focus on the night air: the stars twinkling above me and the city lights mirroring them down below.

I glance at Peter and catch him glancing at me.

He smiles, slow, lazy, condescending.

“Go inside, Darling. Enjoy the party.”

“I’d prefer to keep an eye on you.”

“The other three are in there without supervision.”

“Well, I trust the other three to honour a temporary truce. You, though…promises have never been your strong suit.”

“Christ,” he says, flicking his cigarette off the balcony. We watch it fall until the night swallows the orange ember. “We’re not going to spend the night rehashing the past, are we?”

“Not unless you want to.”

“I’d rather you just left me alone. But then, I suppose that’s too much to ask from an overbearing, control-freak of a girl who thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

I’ve heard it all before, but I still want to scratch that smug face to ribbons.

“I _am_ better than you, Pan, because I don’t enable drug addiction.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he muses. “But at least _I’m_ not wasting my dead daddy’s money to live in some tacky overpriced apartment.”

“Prick,” I snap, as something guilty clenches in my stomach.

“Did I hit a nerve, Darling? Ouch,” Peter says with mock sympathy. 

“I hate you.”

“Good.” His lips curl.

“And I need a drink,” I announce. I storm back into the living room.

“B, you’re on Pan watch. I’m not talking to him again until I’ve finished this bottle.” I seize the vodka from the counter, and slouch onto the sofa next to Lily.

“Let’s do shots!” Lily pumps the air. “I have lemon slices and salt and everything.”

We spend an enjoyable thirty minutes making a sizeable dent in our alcohol supplies, aided by my brothers and their friends.

*

With every party, there is always a tipping point where it’s not fun anymore, and the alcohol in your system only makes it harder to escape a depressing situation. Usually, I’m tucked up in my own bed by the time that point comes, and I never notice it pass.

Tonight, though, I am crouched on the floor with a dustpan, sweeping up broken shards of what was once our living-room mirror. I’m too drunk for this; my fine motor skills are lost. There are grains of glass digging into my palms and my knees.

When the mirror got smashed, it seemed to signify the beginning of the end of the party. There are just a few stragglers left, including the Lost Boys, because Jonny finally noticed they were here and dragged the twins into a game of waterfall. Most of the remaining revellers seem fairly happy, apart from Peter, who only came back inside a few minutes ago. He took one look at me, in my palace of shards, and headed off into the hallway to sulk or something.

“Wendy?”

I look up to see Michael looking down at me, concerned.

“Hey,” I offer him a shaky smile.

He crouches down and takes the dustpan from me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, but my voice catches. “Yeah, I…” Suddenly I’m very scared I might cry. In front of my brother. On his birthday. “I can’t do this.” I put my head in my hands.

“Just get them to go, Wen,” Michael says. “Jonny’s wasted. He’ll barely notice them leave.”

“Sorry, Mikey,” I say with a small smile. “This was supposed to be a fun evening. You’re not the one who should be sweeping up broken glass.”

“Michael,” he corrects my use of his baby name gently. “And it’s okay. I’m always cleaning up after the others in the dorms.”

“Ah, baby brother,” I engulf him in a hug. “When did you get so wise, and nice?”

“You’re drunk, Wen,” Michael says with a laugh, shrugging me off gently.

“Oh, but I mean it. You’re the best of us three, Mikey.”

“Don’t let Jonny hear that.”

“Jonny,” I say slowly. “Jonny! He’s the best of us three, too.” I scan the room for him, because I should tell him that. Instead my eyes land on Nibs.

“Lecter! Hannibal!” I grab him by the arm.

“Sup, Darling? You alright?”

“I shall be better,” I say, gripping his sleeve rather tightly as I almost overbalance, “if you leave. No offence. But I really hate Pan, y’know?”

“Gotcha. We’ll head off, yeah? Thanks for inviting us, though.”

He drags Cole and Nolan away from Jonny, herding them to the door. Firmly but gently, Lily encourages the others to leave. There is no arguing with a firm Lily, so soon the apartment is almost empty.

Bella takes Jonny into my room, forcibly putting him to bed. Presumably they run into Peter in the hall, because soon he emerges, following Nibs out.

He pauses in the doorway and looks at me, a strange almost-smile hovering on his lips.

“You can’t say we didn’t try, Darling,”

“What?”

“A truce. We tried,” he shrugs, “and it didn’t work. Best enemies forever, yeah?”

“Oh, just go away,” I say, but there’s little malice, mostly because I’m not entirely sure what he’s on about.

*

Michael and Jonny are tucked up in my bed, so I’m in with Bella. I flop down onto her lovely soft mattress, shucking off my dress and wrestling myself into pyjamas without standing up. Bella goes into the bathroom to remove her makeup and brush her teeth, responsible adult-style, and I crawl under the duvet and regret drinking so much.

Through the open door, I can see Lily in her room sat on the end of her own bed.

“I’m lonely,” she says, pouting. “Can I come in with you guys?”

I pat the duvet next to me, and she trips across the hallway to collapse beside me.

Bella comes in from the bathroom, slipping in on my other side.

“Neither of you are gonna brush your teeth, then?”

Lily shakes her head, face pressed into the pillow. Bella leans across to turn out the light, and the three of us lie in the darkness. 

“It was a bad idea to let them come,” Lily says, her face muffled by the pillow. 

“The mirror was an accident,” I say.

“Does it matter? We let the Lost Boys in, and shit got wrecked.”

She’s not wrong. Peter Pan has always been synonymous with pandemonium, and I was stupid enough to let him in. I think of him on the balcony, his eyes gleaming in the glow of his lighter, jaw clenched around an insult. He is anarchy and chaos, which is exactly the reason I cut him from my life in the first place. Still, three years later, chaos has a way of creeping up on me.


	3. Extrapolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m a pretty shitty person, when you stop and think about it. I try not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but this fic is so. much. fun. to write! So I really hope you're enjoying it too.

### Peter

Teddy is still at my house — splayed out on my sofa — when I surface on Saturday morning. I don’t remember allowing him to stay over, but I don’t remember allowing a lot of things my boys do. While I was gone, he ate most of my food, sorted the Dust into small, sellable doses sealed in little plastic bags, and opened my whiskey.

“You are such an arsehole,” I say when I discover the bottle.

“Shit,” he says, eyeing my clothes — last night’s clothes — “You actually _went_ to that party? Man, you’re whipped by a girl you're not even sleeping with.”

“I went,” I say, forcing back irritation, “For the boys. Jonny and Michael.”

“Yeah, and they’re about as special as their sister. Seriously. What’s the appeal?” He heaves himself into a sitting position, reaching for my whiskey. I snatch it away from him.

“Ted, it’s not even noon,” I say. “And the Darling boys are smart; popular. The twins try, but we just aren’t shifting Dust the way we used to.”

I don’t add that the mere thought of having Wendy Darling’s brothers on _my_ side gives me a weird, forbidden thrill.

“ _Used to_ , as in back when Bella and Lily were on our payroll?” Teddy clarifies.

“Exactly. Now, please don’t drink or eat any more of my stuff. In fact, I’d prefer if you went back to your own place.”

“Don’t we have errands?”

“Shit, you’re right. Okay, are you ready to go?”

“Are _you_?” Teddy looks at me steadily. “You know your shirt’s buttoned wrong, right?”

“At least I’m wearing one.”

Teddy sighs, and slouches off to my room to borrow one. 

“Is there any point asking where the fuck yours is?” I call after him as I re-button my shirt. I drag my jacket on, checking the pockets for wallet, phone, smokes. As Teddy comes back downstairs, I fill his rucksack with Dust, tucking it into the lining, hiding it under a few textbooks.

“As if anyone will take me for a uni student,” Teddy says with a snort.

“Just take the bag,” I say, holding open the front door.

Nibs and the twins are waiting at the end of the road.

“Morning,” Nibs grins lazily. “Good night last night?”

“You were there, Nibs.” I drag a hand across my face. “What a disaster. I’m eighty percent certain that Michael, at least, hates us almost as much as his sister does.”

“What I don’t understand,” Nolan says, lighting up a cigarette and passing the pack to his brother, “Is why you think Jonny and Michael are worth all this effort.”

Cole pouts. “One pair of twins not enough for you, P?”

“You know me, Cole, I like my boys in pairs.” I wink, and he laughs, the sound echoing off the road.

“Twisted fucker!”

Teddy rolls his eyes.

“I hate you chipper bastards,” he mutters.

“Cheer up,” I say. “It’s Saturday! We’ll be in CrocoDial in twelve hours.”

“Helping people _fly_ ,” Nibs adds. That’s sort of our slogan for Dust. It’s technically true, too: one dude last year actually tried to fly from the top of a building. I took him one of those fruit-baskets while he was in hospital; never let it be said I don’t care about my customers.

“Man, I could do with some right now, actually.” Nolan looks at me hopefully. “It’s been almost a week.”

“Let’s see how much Curly’s got, first. Can’t very well go giving you handouts if we’ve nothing to sell.”

We walk in silence for a while. I take a deep breath, the air full of cigarette smoke.

“So what _was_ the party like?” Teddy asks.

I swivel round to face him.

“Not bad,” I say, “If you like rosé and socialising with immature kids.”

“And shitty music,” Cole adds.

“Sweet apartment, though,” Nibs says thoughtfully. “Wonder how they afford it.”

“Darling’s parents,” I say. “Their life insurance was pretty hefty, if I recall.” Even as I say it, a heatwave of shame engulfs me, remembering the dig I threw at Wendy last night. It might have been true, but it definitely wasn't fair. I told her we’d tried to keep a truce, but had I really tried? Had I even wanted to?

“Yet another reason you should have locked that shit down, Nibs,” says Teddy.

“Mm. How could you let a catch like that go?” I add dryly.

Teddy looks at me sharply. He’s been privy to enough of my drug-fuelled confessions to take my sarcasm at face-value.

A shadow slides onto the street behind me. I spin back around to see Sly on the pavement up ahead. I think he may have just walked through the hedge.

“What the fuck,” Nolan squints into the bushes. “Where’d you come from?”

“Friend’s house,” Sly says. “Traded some Dust for a bit of coke, Pan, you don’t mind, do you?”

“Do whatever you want with your share sweetheart, so long as we’re profiting.”

Sly grins. “We always are.”

*

Curly’s house is quiet and the curtains still drawn when we arrive. I tap on the door lightly, but when, predictably, there is no reply, we simply walk in. The air is thick with the scent of Dust, so potent we might be getting high simply standing in the hallway.

“Shit,” Sly whispers, “Was Curly brewing Dust, or smoking it last night?”

“Both,” the twins say together.

“It’s always both,” Cole adds.

“Sly, would you do the honours?”

He nods, disappearing into Curly’s bedroom. I traipse into the spare room, followed by Nibs. The windows are blacked out with bin bags, and the light is feeble. Nibs flicks on the light and we survey the scene. The tabletop is slick with spilled Dust, glittery and powerful, sparkling in the light.

“Where is it?” he whispers.

I spot the tray tucked under the table and pull it out. It’s full to the brim with Dust. A few grains spill as I lift it onto the table. This batch looks a little different to the stuff Teddy’s got in his bag: a little more like fools’ gold than glitter. I pick up a granule, and it crumbles easily between my fingers.

“Oh, that looks lovely,” Nolan appears at my shoulder. “What’s he done to it? D’you think it’s better than the usual?”

“Only one way to know,” I say, "But I want to hear what Curly has to say before we try it.”

“Good luck with that,” Teddy’s voice comes from the end of the corridor. “He’s absolutely wasted.”

“Oh, Curly,” Nibs mutters, shaking his head.

The thing about Curly is he’s a genius. So clever that the world is just too much for him to handle, I reckon. This means two things: first, he’s improved my formula for Dust so much that it’s next-level good, better than any other drug you could ever find. Secondly, though, it means that he gets through copious amounts of the stuff himself to dull the sharpness of the world. He’s trying to make himself stupid, and I’m worried that one day he’ll succeed permanently.

“Didn’t I tell him he needed to be sober today?” I said.

“Does he ever listen?”

“I’m thinking maybe we should get him some help,” Sly says dryly. He and Teddy snicker, but I’m not finding it funny. Help is definitely what Curly needs, and that’s coming from his dealer. He’d never accept it, is the problem, and I’m just selfish enough not to push too hard, for fear of losing his skills. I’m a pretty shitty person, when you stop and think about it. I try not to.

Nibs goes into the kitchen to knock up a hangover cure for Curly, mixing a pinch of Dust in with some ibuprofen to help take the edge off. Meanwhile, the twins and I sit around, totting up our numbers. If the new batch is safe, we’re golden for a few weeks, with enough left over for Nolan’s all-important personal supply. I’m keeping my eye on that one: Curly alone is difficult enough to handle, but so far it seems as though Nolan’s mostly selling his personal supply on to his inner circle of friends at a reduced price. He’s not imbibing brain-destroying amounts just yet.

Sly flicks the TV on, finding some home-improvement show and instantly getting drawn in. I leave him and the others to learn the merits of marble countertops and join Nibs and Curly in the kitchen.

“Don’t say anything,” Curly mutters. The hangover cure, half-drunk, sits on the table in front of him. “I know you told me to be sober this morning, but I had to test the new batch, didn’t I?”

‘Well, one,” I say, “Sly and Nolan could have done that for you today. And two: you didn't need to get plastered, did you?”

“I’m _not_!”

Nibs and I stare at him incredulously.

“Alright, I mean, I _am_ , but mate, I only did a line!”

“ _One line_?” Nibs repeats. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure,” Curly snaps. He picks up his glass and finishes the rest of the cure, his mouth twisting at the awful taste. “I’ll admit I was still a bit high from earlier, and I’d had a few beers, but…this gold Dust is _potent_ , man.”

“Yeah,” I say, “What exactly did you do to it?”

“I rebalanced the formula just a bit.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Peter,” Curly looks at me steadily. “No offence, but you barely scraped through GCSE Chem. Do you really think you’ll understand?”

“No,” I admit grudgingly. “So it’s safe to take, then? This gold stuff?”

“Safe as any drug,” Curly shrugs. “Can I go back to bed now?”

He goes to sleep off his massively-powerful Dust. I leave Nibs in charge of testing the Dust while Cole and I go food shopping. Mundane, yes, but running a drug ring isn’t all excitement.

“One line,” I say to the boys. “You got it? Only _one_.”

“So that's six lines each, then, right?” Sly calls after me.

*

I’m torn between soya and almond milk. Beside me, Cole huffs, tapping his foot impatiently as I consider. I toss a carton of soya milk into the trolley.

“You can’t honestly expect us to drink _that_ ,” he says.

“Honestly I don’t,” I say, “Because you don’t actually live with me. You have a dorm at Barrie’s. And a mansion in Kent.”

“Still, though. _Soya_.”

I grab a bottle of semi-skimmed for Curly’s fridge, because all he has in the way of groceries is a half-finished pack of biscuits. “Happy?”

“Not really.”

“Great.”

I wander away to find cheese, and when I return Cole is eyeing the trolley.

“Cole.” I glare at him. “Cole, I swear to God, if you sit in that trolley…” 

Cole grins, ignores me, and swings his feet up into the damn cart.

“There’s no more space for food.”

“Ah, let’s just buy some whiskey and be done with it.” He pats the small space down by his feet.

“There is more to life than alcohol, y’know.”

“Says who?”

Cole’s phone buzzes, distracting him long enough for me to find bread and eggs while he taps out a reply. I work my way down my list, hampered slightly by the dead weight that is Cole busy texting. At least he gets out of the trolley when we hit the frozen aisle.

As I propel the trolley in the general direction of the tills, Cole’s phone buzzes, three times in quick succession before he can even open the messages.

“ _Who_ is that? Why are they so keen to talk to _you_?”

“Nice, P.” He smirks down at the screen. “It’s Jonathan Darling,” he adds, affecting a posh accent.

“His big sister’s anti-drug rants didn’t get through to him, then? He looking to score?”

“Wants to score _something_ ,” says Cole, “And I’ve half a mind to give it to him.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I thought you liked the other one.”

Cole shrugs. “One or the other. Both.”

“Shouldn’t you object to that kind of fetishisation, as one half of a twinset yourself?”

“Probably. The point is,” Cole places my soya milk on the conveyor belt with a grimace, “The Darlings hit the genetic lottery, man. I mean, I’m gay and I’d probably still do Wendy; Michael should be an Urban Outfitters model; and Jonny plays like, lacrosse, or whatever, so he’s ripped.”

“Is it lacrosse? I thought rugby.”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably, to Jonny.”

“That’s true,” Cole says slowly. “Remind me to check what sport he plays so I can compliment him on it. Anyway, it’s _you_ he’s interested in. He wants your number.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“I told him he has to pass an initiation ritual before he can get close to the big man.”

“Since when?” I dig in my wallet for my card, smiling at the cashier. She smiles back as she rings my items up.

“‘Bout five minutes ago? I told him he has to go through me to get to you,” he grins.

“Now it all makes sense,” I say. “Well, when you’re done with him, do let me know.”

*

The Lost Boys are flying when Cole and I get back to Curly’s. Sly and Teddy have disappeared upstairs. Another episode of the home improvement show has started, and Nolan’s still engrossed. He offers his brother a lazy fist bump as Cole flops down next to him on the sofa. I join Nibs out in the garden. He’s fumbling with a pack of cigarettes, but his fingers don’t seem quite connected to his brain. I shake one from the pack for him and light it, sliding it between his lips. He nods in thanks, taking a deep breath before he speaks.

“Nolan’s had the most — one line, like you said. _Way_ too fucking much, I don’t know if he can even stand.” He looks down at his hand, shaking slightly, cigarette caught between first and middle finger. “I only had a pinch, but it was enough. Wore off fast, though, and the comedown’s not fun. I can’t feel my fingers.” He laughs.

“To be fair, Nibs, you’ve got a very low tolerance,” I say, eyeing his hands apprehensively. Curly didn’t mention loss of sensation in any extremities. “Sly and Teddy?”

“Sly didn’t have much, maybe quarter what Nolan did? _Seems_ pretty sober but said he feels _really_ good. Teddy had half a line and man, he was _gone_. You know how he gets, all happy and reckless. Sly took him upstairs to relax.”

“Relax. Yeah, right.” I ponder Nibs’ information for a minute or two. Curly will be able to dilute the Dust’s potency, I’m sure. Getting the high to last longer might be harder, but then as Curly said, I wouldn’t understand his methods anyway.

“So,” Nibs says, and I recognise the forced casual tone that indicates he thinks he’s getting onto a touchy subject, “the Darling boys. Are you sure about them?”

I don’t say anything, just stare at the weed-infested lawn, waiting him out.

“They’re high-risk, Peter. The girls tolerate us, just about, if we stick to our territory, but they could royally fuck us if they wanted.”

“Yeah, think about that for a second, though. The Banshees could call the police on us at any time, but they don’t. Innocent bystanders don’t sit on shit like this.”

“You think they’re still—?” Nibs breaks off, as if he can’t quite believe it. He stamps his cigarette out, lips pursed as he considers. “Even so,” he says eventually, “Wendy wouldn’t care about that if her brothers got into trouble — _your_ kind of trouble.”

Nibs is my voice of reason. When he has doubts, they’re usually pretty sound, and he’s talked me down from dangerous situations before. I should back off of Jonny and tell Cole to cancel his initiation.

“I still want them, though. I don’t know why.”

“I know why.” He sighs. “And I hate to repeat myself, but you really are an addict.”


	4. Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I pause at the edge of the dance floor, looking out over the club: arms raised above heads, bodies moving as though hypnotised by the ear-splitting music; girls leaning over the balcony, hair like seaweed in the dark underwater noise; the bass thrumming through my body, fucking with my heartbeat and my vision. My kingdom.

### Wendy

On Saturday morning, Bella dyes her hair. She’s awake hours before any of us, barely hungover, hair twisted with foil by the time I emerge from her room.

“Isn’t your hair blonde enough?”

“Ah,” she points a finger at me as though I’ve made an excellent point, “But soon it’s going to be _silver_. There’s a huge difference.” She wanders into the bathroom, and I follow.

“Jesus.” The peroxide fumes in there are enough to send me back out into the corridor.

“What’s that smell?” Michael appears in the doorway to my room, adorably crumpled, nose wrinkled.

“Bella’s dyeing her hair.”

“Some of us are still trying to sleep!” Lily calls, and from within my room I can hear Jonny groaning feebly.

Bella peels a piece of foil back, inspecting the hair below. “Looks about done.”

I wander back into the living room, carving out a small space on the coffee table for my laptop. The sound of the shower running filters through the apartment. Michael zombie-shuffles over to the fridge, surveying our breakfast options.

“No hangover?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Do you have bacon?”

“No!” Lily calls from the bedroom. “I’m officially declaring this a meat-free abode!”

“You don’t have the authority to do that!” I sing back. Lily makes the decision to become vegetarian at least once a month — usually after a night of heavy drinking, when the smell of bacon makes her feel queasy — but she caves after a few days when the weight of her decision hits her full-force. “I don’t think we do, though. We can pick some up for your dorm later, if you want.”

“So generous.” Michael offers me a soft smile as he fills a bowl with chocolatey cereal.

“Well, it _is_ your birthday, after all.”

“Mm. Whatcha doin’ on there?” He perches beside me on the sofa.

I sigh. “Job application. Temporary secretarial staff.”

“The Crichton Group?” He reads over my shoulder. “Don’t they own like, half the clubs in the city?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Is this that company with the hook-handed CEO?” Bella’s finished washing out the dye, and leans out into the hallway, her hair dripping onto the floor.

“It’s not a hook anymore, Bella.” James Crichton is something of a celebrity: a swashbuckling billionaire CEO who travels the globe and once sailed the Atlantic alone. On one of his mysterious adventures somewhere in Asia, he lost his hand in a freak accident and by an even stranger series of events ended up with a temporary prosthetic in the shape of a hook. Something about how it was the only sterile instrument he could fix to the raw end of his arm to keep it from getting infected…or maybe it was that his travelling companions dared him to do it. “He’s got a fully-functioning metal prosthetic now.”

“The job's well-paid, then?” Michael hazards. In Bella’s room, the hairdryer is switched on with little to no consideration of Lily still trying to sleep. My head throbs in sympathy, and I take a sip of tea to drown the sensation. Thankfully, I filled the application in on Thursday; all that’s left to do is attach my CV and send it off. Anything more taxing would be simply too much this morning.

Bella comes in just as I’m closing my laptop; she does a little twirl and tosses her new shiny grey hair over her shoulder. Michael applauds politely. Whipping out her phone, Bella poses to take a selfie. I duck out of the way as she angles the camera at me.

“Don’t! I look awful.”

“Hangover chic,” she insists.

“And when you start spouting shit like that, I know how truly terrible I really look,” I say with a grin. “Time to make a move, d’you think, Mikey?”

“If you can get Jonny up, sure.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Jonny is just a lump of blankets in the middle of my bed. I pull the curtains wide and the lump groans.

”C’mon,” I say, peeling back the duvet. “Time to get up.”

He’s curled into the recovery position, glaring blearily up at me.

“I’m dying,” he croaks.

“That’s what you get for drinking a whole bottle of sambuca on your own.”

“Says you.” He sits up. “My memory’s a little hazy but didn’t you finish off Pan’s vodka? _My_ birthday present,” he adds.

“Didn’t realise you were so observant.”

“I see everything, Wendy.”

He moves to get up but seems to think the better of it and flops back down, wriggling under the covers even as I try to pull them away.

“And yet somehow, you didn’t see this hangover coming.”

Jonny mumbles something indistinct and probably rude and I finally succeed in pulling the blankets off him.

“Chop chop, Jonny. Gotta get you back to dorms. You’ve got coursework to finish this weekend.”

“How do you _know_ that?”

“I’m your legal guardian. It’s my job to know.”

He shuffles slowly to the bathroom. As the door swings shut he calls, “does that mean you’ll do the work for me, then?”

“Only if you’ll do mine, too,” Michael interjects. He pulls his hair back into a bun that looks better than mine ever does and disappears into my bedroom to get dressed.

Bella’s still checking herself out in her phone’s front camera, but she shoots a glance at me over her shoulder.

“Shall we go out tonight, then?” she asks brightly. “Want to get some miles on this new colour.”

In the bedroom, Lily screams into a pillow.

“Ask me on Monday,” I say, pressing my fingertips to my temples gently.

“I think I’ll go out,” she muses. “Shellie and her lot’ll probably be out.”

“You are a partying machine.”

Bella shakes her head, teeth glinting as she smiles.

“I know how to pace myself,” she says. “Lily always skips past tipsy straight into hammered. And the trouble with you is you drink when you’re emotional and don’t stop till all the feelings are nicely buried. Me, I like to enjoy myself. Stay buzzed all night; no headaches the day after.”

“My way’s cheaper,” Lily calls from the next room. It’s true; getting smashed at pre-drinks is generally less expensive than the cocktails Bella prefers.

“And now look at you,” Bella sings, “You’ll be no use to anyone till tomorrow!”

“That’s alright, though, isn’t it, because I don’t have lectures ’til Monday.”

“You must have essays to write, or something.”

“Don’t remind me. It should be against the law,” Lily declares, finally emerging from the bedroom with the duvet wrapped around her shoulders, “for twenty-two-year-olds to have homework.”

*

We take the scenic route back to St Barrie’s, past the supermarket. I buy Michael the promised bacon, and get Jonny a jar of coffee because he hugs it to his chest and hisses at me when I tell him that coffee is actually the worst thing to drink when you’re hungover. He keeps it tucked under his arm as we walk. 

“Who’re you texting, Jon?” I ask. I’m a teeny bit irritated: my brothers spend eighty percent of their time at school, so I’d prefer them to be completely present when we hang out. Last time I voiced this opinion, though, Jonny rolled his eyes and told me to stop trying so hard to be our mother, and Michael got upset and tried to hide it behind sarcasm, and things went downhill very quickly from there. We didn’t speak for three days.

“Just…a friend,” Jonny says, his voice lagging behind his typing. “Talking about, uh, the coursework.”

Michael peers over Jonny's shoulder and his eyebrows go way up. Jonny scowls, angling the screen away. Any regular parent would ask who Jonny was really texting, but I’m only his older sister, and God knows when I was seventeen I’d about die if anyone saw some of my more private texts. I quietly plan some no-phones fun for next weekend — are we too old for rollerblading? — and bid my brothers goodbye at the school campus gates. Lily, Bella and I avoid the dorms if we can help it. Too many bad memories there.

Too many bad memories all across this town, if I’m honest. I haven’t gone south of Poplar Avenue since our home there was sold, and whole swathes of town are tainted nowadays, either by Pan and his heinous Lost Boys or by what happened to Mum and Dad. Walking back from Barrie’s, I feel itchy, like the Wendies of my past are right on top of me: eight and riding my bike with Curly and Peter; the time that I tripped and muddied my uniform, which I then had to wear for the rest of my first day at St Barrie’s; the first time Peter asked me to do a _favour_ for him when I was sixteen, and at eighteen when I finally stopped obliging. I’m ready to shed them all, these memories. In just twenty months, I can. Once Mikey and Jonny finish at St Barrie’s, and have got into uni, Bella, Lily and I are off. We’re not sure where yet: a city, hopefully, someplace big enough to get lost in. Edinburgh, London, Manchester…Paris or Venice, maybe. Lily fancies the US, where she could find a teaching job easily. Bella wants to somehow make the leap from local bank manager to big-time stock broker in London. I just want to leave. This town is all very well for wasting time reliving the past and wasting money on memories that fade into one, but we’re all after something bigger.

### Peter

It’s almost nine before my Lost Boys start to drag themselves into some kind of shape. In that time, I’ve been back to mine, put my shopping away, tided up after Teddy, and completed my errands. Back at Curly's place, Cole’s been texting Jonny all day, and whatever they’re talking about has put him in a good mood. Sly claims he's got places to be and heads out.

“And what places are those, exactly?” I call after him, but the front door swinging shut is the only answer I get. Not long after he leaves, Teddy reappears, dragging a t-shirt over his head as he descends the stairs. It’s not the same shirt he borrowed from me, and I know it’s useless asking for mine back. The twins have already broken into the whiskey I bought earlier and Nolan waves for Teddy to join them. Cole shuffles a pack of cards.

“We haven’t got time for drinking games,” I say, picking up a dubiously-clean glass from beside the sink and pouring a generous measure of alcohol into it.

“Relax, P, it’s not even ten yet.”

It’s all very well for Teddy to say this; I don’t think he’s ever been stressed in his life.

“Curly’s in the shower,” Cole informs me, “and Nibs has popped home for something.”

“Something?” I echo.

Cole shrugs. “Probably homesick. I don’t think he’s been back to his own apartment in like four days.”

“That’s his own fault,” Nolan cuts in. “No one’s forcing him to be here, are they?”

“So what’s your excuse? You haven’t been to your dorm in about a week,” I say.

It’s Nolan’s turn to shrug. “It’s more fun here.”

“No wonder we aren’t selling Dust at Barrie’s any more,” Teddy says in a low, confidential tone that both the twins can hear. “They’re never _there_.”

“Fuck off, Teddy,” Cole advises.

“Yeah, it’s not as if _you’re_ bringing home piles of cash.”

Teddy shrugs, pouring himself a shot and sliding the bottle out of Nolan’s reach. “I have a couple of high-profile clients.”

Nolan snorts, and looks to me for confirmation. I tilt my head, non-committal. Teddy’s big plans haven’t quite come to fruition yet, and I don’t want to jinx anything.

“Pan says you’re full of shit.”

“Funny,” Teddy rumbles, “I didn’t see his mouth moving.”

There’s the sound of footsteps on the landing upstairs. By the time Curly comes into the kitchen, Teddy’s by the doorway proffering a whiskey and soda. Curly takes a long gulp and looks at me, his eyes sharp and smiling.

“Do I hear in-fighting?”

“‘Course not,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter beside him. “I taught my Lost Boys better’n that.”

“ _You_ never taught them anything, ‘cept a healthy disregard for the law.”

We grin, and he raises his glass, a subtle salute. _This_ is my Curly, not the waster who’s never sober enough to do his own shopping. I haven’t quite worked out how to persuade the former to stick around and be done with the latter for good.

Cole leans across the table to plug his iPod into Curly’s speakers and twists the volume dial till the neighbours can hear the lyrics.

“So,” I say, battling against wave of sound, “We’ll leave the gold Dust at home tonight. Play it safe ’til Curly’s figured out the dosage.”

Cole pouts. “Too bad. I wanted to see what it would do to the general public.”

“Well, Cole, I don’t _want_ the majority of our clientele comatose, no matter how it seems.”

“People hooked up to life support usually aren’t paying for illegal drugs,” Curly agrees.

“All the more for us,” Nolan says, digging in his pocket. I put out a hand to stop him.

“We’re not taking the gold either, tonight. I’m serious,” I say, as he looks at me mutinously from under furrowed eyebrows, “We need to start being more careful. Professional. Remember what happened to Nibs last week?”

“Nibs is the most straight-edge dealer I’ve ever met,” Teddy says. “And the worst at pretending he’s sober when he’s not. Don’t put that on us.”

“Because you’re all such good actors? Trust me, Ted, when you’re high, I know it.”

“So, what, we have to be stone sober when we’re clubbing from now on?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just practice a little discretion. I know you all have some. Let’s aim for buzzed, not bombed. Can I trust you to each know where that line is for you?” There’s a mumbling of agreement. “Excellent.” I top up each of my boys’ glasses. Nolan empties his pockets onto the table. Curly takes one of the bags, tearing the top and pouring a trickle of Dust into his drink. He swirls his glass till the drug is mostly dissolved. Cole follows suit, though he doesn’t mix it as thoroughly and the powder settles at the bottom of his glass. When he tips his head back to down the drink, he winces as the Dust, sharp and bitter, hits his tastebuds.

Immune to the taste, and a braver man than I, Teddy simply _eats_ his dust, like it’s sherbet. He winks at Curly, who shakes his head, sipping at his Dusted whiskey and soda.

Businesslike, Nolan arranges his Dust into a neat little line, preparing to snort it. He looks like such a pro, considering that just six months ago he’d barely heard of the stuff. I lean over and press my finger to the very end of the line, picking up a sprinkling of Dust. It’s extremely high quality, this stuff — the faint lustrous shimmer is evidence of that. Back when I got my Dust from other sources, it was always cut with other stuff, shit that diluted the effects of the drug and dulled its tell-tale sparkle.

But this stuff sets to work almost immediately, tingling along my synapses almost before I’ve swallowed. Then the world goes ever so slightly hazy, soft, every colour brighter and every sound louder, sweeter.

“Arsehole,” Nolan is saying, “Now I’ve got to set it out again.”

“Just hurry up and take it, will you?”

I lean back in my chair and smile at Teddy. He grins back.

“See, don’t you feel much better now you’re not ten shades of stressed-out?”

“Someone has to worry about things,” I say, “Or it’ll all go to shit.”

“You never used to, back in the day.”

“Back in the day, we weren’t making a few hundred a day selling Dust. I’m okay with that trade-off.”

“Fair enough. And listen, man,” Teddy slaps my hard on the shoulder, “Those high-profile clients? I’ve almost got ‘em. They just want to speak to you — seal the deal, like.”

“Set up a meeting,” I say, with a careful sip of my drink to hide my enthusiasm.

“This time next week, we’ll be trading with the stars,” he announces.

I roll my eyes. Teddy always did like to exaggerate.

*

It’s a damp night, and the queue for CrocoDial is long. It snakes along the road, people huddling close to the wall to keep out of the cold. There’s not much in the way of a cloakroom in CrocoDial, so anything that wouldn’t be worn on the inferno-hot dance floor tends to get left at home. Nolan nudges me and points to Nibs, right at the tail end of the queue, head bent as he talks to a couple guys who were in his year at school. Nibs smiles, an easy, engaging one that’s rare to see. Then he spots us coming and detaches himself, coming into step with us as we walk past the line.

I spot Bella Tindall about halfway down the queue, fluffing up her hair. Was it that colour last night? I don’t think it was. When I first met her, it was blue, and she’s been working her way through the rainbow ever since. I scan Bella’s clutch of friends, but there’s no sign of Lily or Wendy, just a few uni students I don’t recognise and one that I do: a girl named Shellie Wren, who is deceptively cute and could drink most of my boys under the table. In fact, in the past, she  _has_.

We pass on up the line and I feel mutinous eyes on our backs, wondering why we get to skip to the front. Nolan runs a hand through his hair, smirking. He’s only been with the Lost Boys a few months and still isn’t quite used to the preferential treatment we receive. I do wish he’d take those sunglasses off, though. They look cool for about a minute inside the club before he trips because he can’t actually see anything.

Because I’m a dick, I turn and blow a kiss to Bella. She scowls and gestures rudely with both hands while Teddy laughs close to my ear.

“Alright, Felix, how’s it going?” I say to the bouncer, offering him my fist to bump.

“Alright, Pan?” The Lost Boys file past me into the club. The girl at the head of the queue coughs, her ID proffered to Felix. “Go on in, man,” he says to me. “See you later.”

If the line outside CrocoDial was long, it’s nothing compared to the crush inside. The lights flash green and silver, painting Cole’s smile in wicked colours. Teddy muscles through the crowd, and Nibs and the twins follow. I pause at the edge of the dance floor, looking out over the club: arms raised above heads, bodies moving as though hypnotised by the ear-splitting music; girls leaning over the balcony, hair like seaweed in the dark underwater noise; the bass thrumming through my body, fucking with my heartbeat and my vision. My kingdom.

Curly is still at my side, surveying the sight with a cool, knowledgeable gaze.

“Gonna be one heck of a night, Peter,” he says, as he does every night.

“It always is,” I reply. Then we turn towards the bar. As if by magic, the crowd parts to let us pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in which Peter and Wendy don't interact, and even I'm not sure why not ;) Sorry bout that. Chapter 5 is gonna be a goodun, though.


	5. Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter flashes me a quick, white-toothed smile. It reminds me that some animals bare their teeth in threat, not friendliness.

### Wendy

It’s half five on Monday evening and my feet are killing. Bella told me not to wear the shiny Mary-Jane heels, but I really wanted to make a good impression. I’m paying for it now, though. Thankfully I’m just one street from my house and the blissful feeling of kicking off my shoes.

Lily calls just as I get to the building. I fumble with the keys in the door with one hand while the other digs out my mobile.

“Wendy! How’d it go?”

“Y’know, I think it went really well! Just before I left, the interviewer said I was as good as hired. She said to look out for a formal offer via email.”

“Aw, I’m so proud of my baby, getting her first job.”

“Well, it’s about time, don’t you think? I’ve only applied for five hundred or so, at this point. Though actually,” I say as I get into the lift — luckily, it’s empty, so I don’t have to bother with small-talk and can stay on the line with Lil — “I’m surprised. I’m not particularly qualified — especially for a place like the Crichton Group. Their offices are so _swanky._ ” My voice drops to an impressed whisper.

“Well, Crichton must’ve been impressed with your A-level results.”

“Yes, Lil, James Crichton himself looked at my B in English and said, _this is the girl I want answering phones while my secretary’s on maternity leave_.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. If _I_ needed a temp, _I’d_ hire you.”

“That’s ‘cause of a little something called nepotism.”

Lily laughs. “Okay, I have to go, my next lecture starts in a few minutes. I’ll pick up some champagne for you on my way home, yeah?”

“I haven’t actually gotten the job yet,” I remind her.

“We’ll put it in the fridge, then.” In the background on Lily’s end, I can hear people milling past her into the lecture-hall.

“I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get in.”

“You are a _babe_ , and I love you,” Lily says, and she hangs up before I can say it back. She always does. It’s like she forgets that there can be an answer to that statement.

Inside the apartment, I kick my shoes off, enjoying the way they slide across the floor and out of sight. Once I’ve donned my fluffy slippers, I go to the kitchen to start dinner. While the oven heats, I go out onto the balcony to watch the sun set and see the streetlights click on. It’s lucky that I do, because I happen to see a figure coming along the road. It’s too dark and he’s too far away for me to be truly sure, but the sway of his walk is enough for me to recognise Peter. At first I’m surprised, but sure it’s a coincidence: he’s just on this road en route to some other place — a Dust sale or the home of one of his detestable Lost Boys. But then he slows as he approaches my building, and I lose sight of him as he enters through the doors. I’m off the balcony and across the flat in the few seconds it takes for him to ring the buzzer.

“Pan?”

“How’d you know?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues on: “Can I come up for a second?”

“ _Why_ do you think I’d let you back up here again?”

“Look, you know I wouldn’t ask unless it wasn’t important. I think someone’s following me.”

The hurried, hushed tone of his voice doesn’t sound faked. I hesitate for a second, but in the end I don’t really want Peter’s murder on my conscience, if he really is being followed.

“Come on up.”

I open up my front door when Peter knocks, and if I’m expecting conversation I’m severely mistaken. He strides straight through to the still-open balcony door, leaning out over the railings to scan the street. A lone car passes, headlights low across the tarmac. Over the road, a dog-walker enters her building. A few seconds later the first floor lights click on before the dog-walker pulls her blinds shut. Nothing unusual or sinister, but the worry that flickers across Peter’s face makes me shiver. I’ve rarely seen him anything other than in control, confident.

“You said someone was following you?”

“I thought someone _was_ ,” he says.

I step forward, resting my hands against the frame of the balcony doorway.

“Paranoia’s a common side-effect of Dust, y’know.”

“Think I don’t know that?” His tone is derisive as he turns to me, but whatever retort he’s got planned never comes out. “Darling,” he says instead, his voice strangled and strange, “What are you wearing?”

“Work clothes,” I say. “Is that a crime?”

“Might be the way _you_ wear them. Jesus.” He spies my shoes on the floor where I kicked them off not twenty minutes ago, “You could have someone’s eye out with those.”

“Maybe,” I say, stashing the offending stilettos behind the sofa. “Shall we test that theory?”

“Have you always been so bloodthirsty?” He’s still kind of eyeing my attire, and I tug at the hem of my shirt, which has slid up infinitesimally. The apartment’s heating hasn’t come on yet, and there are goosebumps across my stomach.

“I do derive a modicum of delight at the idea of causing you bodily harm,” I say, “But I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

“Well, this evening’s good deed notwithstanding, the feeling is mutual.” Peter flashes me a quick, white-toothed smile. It reminds me that some animals bare their teeth in threat, not friendliness. “Well, tell me about this work of yours.”

“Look, just because I’m hiding you from potential stalkers, doesn’t mean we need to do small talk.”

“No, seriously. I want to know.” He looks at me, the picture of good intention.

“It was only an interview. PA work, at the Crichton Group. Temporary.”

“Well, I’m sure you got it.”

I raise my eyebrows. It feels a lot like Peter is trying to butter me up — though for what, I’m not sure.

“I mean, if _I_ were the interviewer?” he continues, “And if you dressed like _that_ to work everyday?”

“Or _maybe_ they judged me on my professional worth?” Hopefully, my disgust is evident on my face. I don’t know why Peter says stuff like that when we both know nothing will ever come of it. “And just because _you_ haven’t seen a shirt since you left school doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t look smart.” 

“You’re just jealous,” he says, and his tone is faintly apologetic, defusing the atmosphere, “because your career has a dress code, and mine doesn’t.”

“That’s exactly right. I’m green with envy because I’m not a drug dealer. You know me so well, Pan.”

He grins again, and I look away.

“Where are your flatmates?”

“Lily’s got uni ’til nine. Bella’s been sent to some kind of conference.”

“Didn’t know bank tellers get to go to conferences.”

“Fuck off, she’s a manager.”

“And very well done to her, too.”

“Better than anything _you’ve_ done,” I say.

“True.” His fingers skitter across the mantel, like he’s learning the picture-frames and ornaments there by heart. “You’ve all done very well for yourselves. Miss Lily the Teacher, Bella the Banker…and Wendy, girl Friday.”

“What does that make you? Pan the Peddler?”

“Mm, I prefer the Pied Piper. I’m a trend-setter, you know.”

“That’s fitting, considering you lure your followers to their deaths.”

Peter’s face darkens, and for a moment I can see about ten minutes into the future: a screaming match in my kitchen, the rift between us growing ever-wider. I’m ready for it. I’m always spoiling for a fight with Peter these days. There’s something in him that speaks to something in me, the wild part, the part where I keep my rage and grief well-guarded so it won’t hurt Lily or Bella or my brothers. But Peter’s never been interested in that well-behaved version of me — the one who acts like I’m supposed to. No, even when we were tiny, he always wanted to see Wendy Darling untamed.

Apparently not tonight, though. Because instead of retaliating, he just sighs.

“Can we not? For once let’s just — _not_ — fight. Think that’s possible?” Before I can reply he digs his phone from his pocket, wandering towards the door.  “Best give Teddy a ring, have him pick me up.”

“Not from here, he won’t. Theodore Harrison-Reid is _banned._ ”

“Still?”

“What do you mean, ‘still’? It’s a lifelong ban.”

Peter pulls a face. “It’s not like he did anything that bad.”

“He tried to sell drugs to my neighbour, Pan. My _thirteen-year-old_ neighbour!”

“Okay,” Peter admits grudgingly, “that was definitely a faux-pas on his part.”

“Aw, just when I think you’re all bad,” I say, “You go and say something like that.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but I’ll take it. Am I allowed to call him from the street?”

“Do what you want,” I say with a sniff, “Just don’t involve me.”

“Easier said than done,” says Peter, and with a strange little salute, he departs, leaving me wondering — as usual — what the fuck he’s talking about.

 

### Peter

Sly calls round early on Friday. When I open the door, he laughs.

“Morning sleepyhead. Did I wake you?” He presses a carrier bag into my hands.

“Arsehole. You know you did. What’s this?”

I peer down at the contents: a few pastries from the M&S bakery and a packet of Mayfairs.

“Breakfast.”

“Not such an arsehole, then.” I step back to let him in. He stands in the hallway, sharp eyes scanning the room as he shrugs off his coat.

“What’s all this about you being followed the other night?”

I scrub a hand across my face, cursing Teddy’s big mouth. “It was nothing. Probably imagined it.”

“Bullshit. Why’ve you been holed up here for three days, if you imagined it?”

I can’t meet his gaze.

“That’s what I thought.” He fishes a battered tobacco tin from his pocket and rolls a skinny joint. He offers me one, but I shake my head. “It’ll help you relax.”

“Weed makes me paranoid.” I help myself to the new pack of Mayfairs instead.

“So tell me,” Sly says, when we’re settled at the kitchen table, and the smoke is swirling up somewhere near the light fitting, “about this shadow of yours. Monday evening,” he prompts, “Seeing the usual people?”

“Yeah, I’d just come from Cook’s. Didn’t see Kav — but he’s on holiday in fucking Belgium, or wherever, so that wasn’t like, warning bells, or anything. So I’m just on my way home, past Aspen Street —”

“Bit out of your way,” he murmurs.

“Well, it's lucky for me I fancied the scenic route, isn’t it? Else this person would know where I live. _Anyway_ , I’m coming up past the high-rise on the corner and I notice this car. Just a shitbox like half the uni students round here drive. Not the kind you’d notice. Except I noticed it. And I’d seen it before. Two — three? — times. Recognised the stupid fucking solar-powered flower on the dashboard.

“So it’s parked by the corner, and I’m thinking, that’s a coincidence, solar-powered shitbox three times in one week, and then as I get to the other end of the road, the engine starts up.” I drag a hand through my hair. “God, I’m probably making a fuss over nothing. But I had a feeling, y’know?”

He nods. “You _are_ a drug-dealer, Pan. There are plenty of people who might have reason to follow you. So no, I don’t think it’s nothing. And remember that time, at the Hook and Claw? You had a _feeling_ , and you hauled us all out not five minutes before the police showed up.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” I say slowly.

“That’s ‘cause we went to Nibs’ on the other side of town and got trashed. Sixteen hours of my life I still don’t remember.” He flashes me a quick grin and stubs out his joint. “So what did you do?”

“What did I do?” I frown.

“When you were sure you were being followed. How’d you get rid of ‘em?”

“Oh. I ducked into that little cinema — the one behind Waitrose? Watched half of that new Disney shite and then went out the side door.”

“I heard that film’s good,” Sly says, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve. I let out a slow, steady breath and say a silent prayer to the god of lies. Then, for the eightieth time this week, I think of Wendy, and those fucking stilettos, and her _legs_ , and the very brief glance I got down herblouse. I want to beat my head against the wall.

“Well, you know I can’t stand true love’s kiss and happily-ever-after endings, so.”

“Aw, so cynical.” Sly shoves the paper bag of pastries across the table. “Eat up, Pan. Hiding out’s all very well, but three days is my fucking limit, and it’s Friday. I wanna see the twins fly on gold Dust.”

“Yeah…not really in the mood for clubbing tonight, Sly.”

“Your mind will change in the next twelve hours,” he says. “‘Sides, if it’s stalkers you’re worrying about, then _don’t_. That’s what your Lost Boys are for, right? We’ve got your back.”

*

“Pan, glad you could make it,” Teddy drawls when Sly and I meet him in the M&S carpark that evening. “Step into my office.”

“See you in a few, Sly,” I say. He winks at me, blows a sarcastic kiss at Teddy — who offers Sly his favourite finger in return — and strides off into the mist.

“Don’t tell me you needed Sly to hold your hand on the walk here,” Teddy says. “It was _one_ pedo in a second-hand car, for fuck’s sake, not the mafia.”

“He just wanted the opportunity to see your new monster.”

Teddy pats the dashboard of the low, sleek, green brute of a car before settling back in his seat and adjusting the rearview mirror. He starts the engine.

“Isn’t she incredible? Reminds me of some prehistoric reptilian beast — that growl!” he exclaims as he reaches the bite and the engine shivers expectantly.“Like a…”

“Gecko?” I offer helpfully.

He shoots me a look. “Fuck off. Like an alligator, y’know? Built to last. Built to _kill_.”

“Well, when you’re done jizzing all over the new upholstery,” I say, “Haven’t we got an appointment to keep?”

Teddy pulls out of the carpark, and we glide along dark dusky streets. We pull up outside an abandoned shop front. It looks like it was once a Woolworths.

“Down here.” Teddy leads me into a narrow alley beside the Woolworths. He clears his throat. “Smith?”

Footsteps, and then a man trots towards us from the other end of the alley. He’s got silver-brown hair, and looks close to retirement. I wonder why he hasn’t done so already: in a business like ours, the longer you’re in, the more dangerous it becomes. His face, like his name, is forgettable. I do my best to commit it to memory.

“Pan.” He offers me his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Yeah, I’m a hands-off manager, for the most part.”

“Ah — so is my boss,” Smith says with a small smile. “I take it you’re aware that his name isn’t to be mentioned here?”

“Of course,” I say smoothly. “I have a sample of our product here,”— I hand him a little pill bottle. There’s about five grams in there; not bad for a free sample, considering I could get close to £200 for that amount, if I wanted — “As you can see, it’s extremely pure.”

Smith unscrews the cap, peering at the drug with an expert eye. “Your own formula, Teddy tells me.”

“I can’t take all the credit. I have an excellent chemist. And I’d prefer, obviously, if you kept this Dust as refined as possible. I’ve built a reputation based on this Dust — and I don’t want to damage that with sub-par merchandise distributed under my name.”

“Of course,” Smith says, “Dust is luxury item. It’s worth every penny, I’m sure. Now, about delivery…”

We spend a few minutes ironing out an agreement. Teddy takes notes in such a strange, confusing scrawl that even Smith’s satisfied that no one would understand it if they discovered it by mistake.

“Well,” I say, before we part ways. “I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure to work with you, Smith.”

“Likewise. A lucrative opportunity for all parties. Your Dust will be circulating in every club in this city by the end of the year, I can guarantee it.”

“Perfect. Ah — before you go…” I gesture to Teddy, and he withdraws a tiny bag of gold Dust. “A goodwill offering for your boss.”

There’s barely a gram in there, and Smith raises his eyebrows. “Not much goodwill in there,” he murmurs. 

I smile. “You don’t need much of this stuff. It’s new, extremely potent. We’re not selling it yet, but perhaps, in the future…?”

“An interesting prospect,” Smith says, and the gold Dust disappears into his pocket. “Perhaps we can discuss it when we next meet.”

With another of those unreadable smiles, he leaves.

“Well?” Teddy looks at me, eager for my verdict.

“Excellent work, Ted. Where _did_ you find that man?”

He taps his nose, pleased.

“You know,” I say, “I’m suddenly in a much better mood. What do you think, Teddy? IZLAND tonight?”

“I think that is the _perfect_ place for a celebration.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter where it truly becomes obvious that I know nothing about drugs and the dealing thereof.
> 
> Also, I want you guys - all 10 of you ;) - to know that I've written 11 chapters of this, kind of a backlog so that if I hit a block I can keep updating.


	6. Enmity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I focus on the figure before me. She’s breathing hard, chest heaving. She flexes her fingers. Oh, she is angry. I feel a throb of vicious satisfaction. She smiles, white-toothed, sizing me up like she’s about to eat me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you haven't listened to my playlists for this story you def should. 8tracks.com/cliffkiffle

### Wendy

“Michael,” I say, taking a step back to let my brother in to the apartment. “Hey. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

Bella pokes her head into the hallway and sings, “Hiya Mikey! How’s tricks?” She doesn’t give him time to reply before she’s gone again.

“Just stopping by.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Wanted to make sure you’ve got the dates for our school trip.”

I frown. He texted me about this only last night; why would he want to turn up in person to discuss it now?

“I’ve got them. Twenty-third through to the first of November.”

“Okay, good.” He nods, hesitates on the brink of speaking again, decides against it and turns to leave. Then he turns back. “Y’know — at our birthday party? And Jonny invited the twins and Peter and Nibs?” I want to ask _how could I forget_ , but the moment is sensitive and I don’t want to tease Michael out of confiding in me. _If_ that’s what he’s about to do. “Well, I think Jonny’s been talking to them.”

“To the Lost Boys?” My voice is sharp. The TV goes abruptly quieter and I know that Bella and Lily are listening hard next door.

“Well, he’s been texting Cole but I don’t know — they’ve always been friendly at school and maybe they’re just _closer_ friends now? But _…_ ”

“But you think that’s not it.”

“I don’t know. I just keep thinking about all the kids that overdose and hallucinate and end up in hospital — remember that girl who died, when you were in upper sixth?” He pauses, and laughs, the way that people do when they’re worried they might cry, “And I really, _really_  don’t want that to be Jonny.”

“It won’t be,” I say. “I’ll sort it.”

“Okay,” Mikey says, and he smiles. I’m reminded of him at seven, a kid who believed his big sister could fix anything. Ten years on, I still don’t want to let him down. “Just — don’t tell Jonny I told on him, yeah?”

I agree, and he backs out into the hallway, his big smile relieved but a little shaky.

“See you and Jonny on Saturday, okay? I’ll text you!” I call after him, and he lifts a hand to wave as the elevator doors shut behind him.

As soon as he’s out of sight, I storm back inside, swinging the door shut with a crash that’s sure to irritate the neighbours.

“Fucking _PAN_!” I shout. Lily cackles until Bella tells her to shut up.

“Come here, Wen!” she calls. “It is time to vent.”

They’re on the edges of their seats as I stride into the living room. Lily looks about set to film my outburst and post it on Snapchat. Bella pats the seat next to her, but I’m too riled to sit. 

“JESUS!” I say, pacing the room. “I am going to FUCKING _KILL_ HIM!” I’ve forgotten how to use my inside voice. 

“Does he think we’re stupid, or what?” Bella says, all flat like she’s totally unsurprised by Peter’s audacity.

“Right? GOD! Like I wouldn’t _find out_ about this? Like I’m fucking oblivious?” I want to scream, and I do so through gritted teeth. “Why? _Why_ does he do this? _Why_ does he think he’s fucking king of this city and we’re all just going to do what he says and never make a fuss? He’s just _so—_ ”

“Obnoxious.”

“Selfish.”

“And every time I _see_ him I just want to—”

“Strangle him.”

“Set him on fire.”

And so it goes. I rave at them for a good five minutes, and they fill in my gaps when I’m too angry to finish my sentence. Lily grins a triumphant, feline grin all the way through and when I finally flop down, sliding low on my chair, she snickers.

“Got that out of your system?”

“No,” I grumble. Then I push myself up into a proper sitting position. “How do I get hold of Pan?”

Bella shrugs. We all mass-deleted the Lost Boys’ numbers years ago, and Peter changes his number on a regular basis anyway. He doesn’t have Facebook and, in an unfair imbalance of power, I don’t know where he lives — even though he’s been to mine twice.

This is so typical. Peter will turn up in my life right when he’s least welcome, and if he ever wanted to find me, he could. But if _I_ need _him_ — admittedly only to berate him — he’s nowhere to be found. I feel like I’m shouting into the wind.

“Might have to wait til we next see him out,” Lily says. “Won’t be too long, with our track records.”

“No fucking way.” I start scrolling through the contacts in my phone, and find Nibs’ number. I haven’t used it since I was eighteen, but I’m hoping it’s still the same. “I am nipping this in the bud. If Pan thinks he can just fucking…” I pause as the phone stops ringing and the voicemail clicks on. I switch it to speaker, and we listen as Nibs tells us he’s too busy to answer the phone right now, but we’re welcome to leave a message. If we’re calling with regards to ‘repeat subscriptions’, it’s best to try his work number.

“Lecter,” I say, ever-so-sweetly. “It’s Wendy. I do _hate_ to bother you on the weekend, but,” — Bella clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle giggles — “But I really need to get in touch with Pan. It’s, uh, _quite_ urgent, so get back to me as soon as possible. Thanks. Bye!”

“Now what?” Lily asks. “Sit around and wait for him to call back?”

“Fuck, no,” I say. “They’re probably at Crossbones right now, completely blitzed without a care in the world. So there is no point in my staying sober and angry.”

Bella and Lily exchange a glance, smiles spreading across their faces.

“We’re going out?”

“Impromptu night on the town? Shit, yes!”

“IZLAND?” I say. The Lost Boys never go to IZLAND: it’s messy, chaotic, a place where fights break out on the regular and most of the guests can’t afford Pan’s Dust. All of which means it’s the perfect place for the Banshees to get drunk tonight.

 

### Peter

“I told you you’d feel better this evening, didn’t I?” Sly says loudly over the sound of the crowded, creaking bus. We’re on our way into town and so, apparently, is the entire fresher population of the city. “Say it with me, boys,” Sly swivels in his seat to address Nibs and the twins, sharing a two-person seat, “Sly is always right.”

Cole looks up long enough from his phone to show Sly two fingers, and Nibs rolls his eyes.

Teddy, who’s standing in the aisle with Curly and I because there are no seats left, says, “I’d have stayed in, if I’d known he was going to be so smug.”

“Look who’s talking,” Nolan mutters. “You haven’t shut up about Smith all evening.”

“That’s an actual _achievement_ ,” Teddy says.

“Gentlemen,” I say, though they are nothing of the sort. “Can we save the bickering for another time? I just want to get to IZLAND, enjoy a night out without having to make any Dust sales pitches.”

“First round’s on me,” Nolan says. “Jäeger-bombs are one-fifty tonight.”

“How kind,” his brother interjects, “are you sure you can stretch to that?”

We laugh as the bus bumps around a corner and Curly and Teddy crash into each other and I elbow some poor kid. He mutters an apology even though it was my fault, and his words catch Sly’s attention. He eyes the boy, a familiar smirk spreading across his face. The boy returns his gaze, intrigued, and I’m pretty sure Sly won’t be spending this evening with the rest of the Lost Boys.

Sure enough, when the bus pulls into the station, Sly hangs back and effortlessly slides into the boy’s pack of uni pals. I look back at him, a questioning glance, as I set off with the others. He waves me off, indicating that he’ll catch up with us later. He slings an arm around his new friend and they slink off in the direction of Crossbones, on the other side of the canal. I whip my phone out to remind him not to give any Dust away for free: _Hard cash only, Sly._

In seconds, he’s replied: _SOMEthings gonna be hard_ — followed by several innocuous emojis strung into a less-innocuous sequence; a dirty hieroglyphic message.

From the outside, IZLAND looks messy already. There isn’t really a queue, just a crowd hanging round the doors, trying to bullshit their way onto the guest-list. IZLAND is about the only club in the city where we can’t just walk in: we’ve got to wait and pay, like everyone else. It’s something of a novelty. I cut through the rabble, the others following, trying to get as close to the entrance as possible.

I don’t notice the Banshees at first. There’s a disturbance just up ahead: someone shoving through the crowd, people complaining, arguing, pushing back. Someone darts in front of me, blocking my path. There’s a ringing sting as the someone slaps me. Hard. Nails gouge across my cheek.

“Holy _fuck_.” Clutching my cheek, I stagger back against Nibs, who grips me by my jacket to keep me upright. His voice, near my ear, is surprised: “Wendy?”

Lily and Bella fight their way through the crowd towards us.

“Wendy! The fuck—?” Lily falls silent as she sees me.

Finally, I focus on the figure before me. She’s breathing hard, chest heaving. She flexes her fingers. Oh, she is _angry_. I feel a throb of vicious satisfaction. She smiles, white-toothed, sizing me up like she’s about to eat me.

“Wendy.” Bella curls her hand around Wendy’s wrist, holding her back.

“Darling,” I say politely. “Can I help you?”

“You little shit,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows, blinking at her like I’ve got no clue.

“Stop with the face.” Lily’s mouth folds into a sneer.

“Keep your paws off my brother, Pan,” says Wendy.

“I haven’t spoken to either of them since their birthday.”

“And you don’t need to, do you? You’ve got your blonde twin to do your dirty work. Using him as bait. First off, my brother can do a _lot_ better than _him_.”

“Oy,” Cole begins, but I hold up a hand.

“No, I want to hear the rest.”

“When I told you I was out, I _meant_ it. That goes triple for my underaged brothers. I have tried to be nice, let you get away with a lot of _shit_ for the sake of a quiet life, but I promise you, I will raise hell to keep Jonny out of your cess-pit of Dust. And there’s more where that came from.” She lifts her chin to indicate the scratches on my cheek. I can feel the narrow lines oozing, blood cooling in the night air. I scrub at them with the heel of my palm.

“Interesting. Wanna know what _I_ think?”

“Go ahead. Let’s hear your pitiful excuse.”

“Excuse? No. I have a theory, you see.” I pause, and Wendy raises her eyebrows, daring me to continue. “You’ve got a lot of passion, Darling, that much is clear. But I think this aggressive attitude is the wrong outlet for it. We all know what you _really_ want.”

She rolls her eyes. Nibs’ grip on me tightens. He thinks that riling Wendy is a mistake. Little does he know it’s my favourite form of entertainment.

“And what do you think I want, Pan?”

I spread my arms wide, notching my grin up from smug to cocky. “Me.”

A low wave of amusement shivers through the Lost Boys. Nibs releases me with an agonised, “ _Pan_.”

Wendy’s eyes are so narrow it’s a wonder she can still see me.

“You are going to regret that.”

“We’re _so_ scared,” Teddy cuts in. I brush off a flicker of irritation: this is about Wendy Darling and I, tackling the tension that’s been between us almost since we first met. He has no place in it.

But Wendy’s already wheeling around, satisfied that she’s got the last word. Her sleek curled hair swishes in my face, sweet-scented and glinting blue in the neon IZLAND sign. Bella and Lily follow, too disdainful to even glance back.

“Oh, Darling, don’t leave,” I call after them. “Things were going so well!”

Lily turns round, dark eyes flashing.

“I will gouge your eyes out in your fucking sleep, Pan!”

“Bloody Banshees, man.” Teddy shakes his head as they disappear into the night. “More and more bloodthirsty every day.”

“Why do you _do_ that, P?” asks Nibs. “Christ, I think my blood pressure just doubled.”

I shrug. “Just a bit of excitement, Nibs.”

“Isn’t your day job exciting enough?”

“Guess not. The way I see it, the two most invigorating activities in life are fucking and fighting. If I can’t get one from Darling, may as well try for the other.” This last part is for the other Lost Boys’ benefit: I know they’ll laugh.

Nolan slaps my arm. “They’re opening the doors, c’mon.”

And with that, I lead my Lost Boys into IZLAND, for a night so good we may never remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should have seen me writing this chapter. I had so much fun with it, cackling away as I typed like some kinda super-villain.  
> What do you guys think, though? Too much violence (c'mon cliff we're all here for smut)? Not enough violence?


	7. Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There isn’t any way for us to go back, is there? To how we used to be?” Peter asks.
> 
> I think back to when I was eight. There’s no way I could ever recapture that innocence, and it might be even harder for Peter. And we can’t go back to how it used to be when I was in sixth form, either. We couldn’t bury our heads in the sand, pretend like the past three years never happened. Could we?
> 
> “No,” I say softly. “There isn’t.”

### Peter

 Lily never makes good on her threat, but Wendy does. It takes about a week. In fact, I’ve forgotten all about it — not that I’d really taken her seriously to begin with.

Then, just two days before the twins leave on their ski trip to the Alps, Cole rings me. Nibs is round, and we’ve got the TV on in the background while he surfs Facebook and twitter.

“Hey, Cole. Look, if you want to give your friends a seventy percent discount, I can’t…”

“Shit,” Cole interrupts me. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

“What’s happened?”

Beside me, Nibs closes his laptop and leans forward.

“The police are here,” Cole hisses, “At school. They’ve got sniffer dogs — they’re searching our dorms and lockers.”

“Have they found anything?” I ask immediately. “Where are you?”

“Nothing of ours. I’m in the changing rooms with Nolan.”

“And where,” I say, fearing the worst, “Is your Dust?”

He lets out a long gust of air.

“In the library. Tucked into a book. Under 615.1.”

Same place I used to keep _my_ Dust when I was sixteen.

“Not the most original place, Cole.”

“I know,” he says, agonised.

In the background, Nolan says, “Fucking told you!”

“They’ll find that,” Nibs murmurs, “Straight away. Might as well have it signposted.”

Cole says, “No one will know it’s ours.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, _everyone_ will know it’s ours. Who else deals at Barrie’s?” Nolan cuts in.

“Loads of people,” says Cole, weakly.

“Not like we do. Not _Dust_.”

Nibs and I exchange a glance. Back when we were in school, there were a couple of busts. We know the drill.

“Go back to class, boys,” I instruct, “Or wherever you’re supposed to be. Act normal for once in your goddamned lives. If the police don’t know who it belongs to, no one’s gonna tell them.”

“But—”

“Why would any of your clients dob you in and risk not being able to buy from you again? No, trust me: Barrie’s kids protect their own. You’ll have to suffer through an anti-drugs assembly or two, maybe hold off selling anything for a few weeks, but it’ll be okay. If not,” I add, “and you get charged or something, I can fix that, too.”

“Okay. Okay. Thanks, Pan.”

“Anytime. Come round mine after school, yeah? And for the love of God, find a better hiding place. The storage unit where they keep summer sports equipment will do. No one’ll go in there before March.”

When we’ve hung up, I turn to Nibs.

“Wonder who tipped the police off?”

“I know,” Nibs says gloomily. He brings Facebook up on his laptop and turns the screen towards me.

**_Wendy Darling_ ** _is feeling smug — Love it when a plan comes together (:_

She’s even had the audacity to tag Nibs.

*

“You and your huge ego, Pan,” Nibs chastises me later. This strikes me as a little unfair: I’ve only just returned from the Chinese takeaway down the road with the Lost Boys’ monumental order, and I don’t think I deserve to be insulted as soon as I step in the door.

“Excuse you?” I drop the order onto the table with a little too much force and one of the foil containers tumbles to the floor.

“Just had to go and piss the Banshees off, didn’t you?” Sly chips in.

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same if you were there? What is this, a mutiny?”

“I’m with Pan,” says Teddy. Which means I probably _am_ in the wrong. “We’ve never gone easy on Darling before. Why should we start now?”

“Maybe because,” Nolan fishes a pot of sweet and sour sauce from the bag, “Wendy Darling is infamously protective of her brothers? And maybe — just _maybe_ recruiting one of them wasn’t our best move?”

But Teddy and Curly are shaking their heads. They both remember how it was when Lily and Bella and Wendy were with us: how popular they were at school, and how much money that made us. And they remember the Darling twins: sweet, smart, like the little brothers most of us had never had.

“Are you sure it _was_ the Banshees, though?” Cole says. “I mean, Barrie’s got a reputation all by itself, maybe it was random.”

“Not fucking likely.”

“It’s never random.”

“Still, though,” Cole presses, “Now that I’ve thought about it, it coulda been a lot worse. So we’ve been set back a grand or so. We’ll make it back soon enough.”

“Yeah, for all her boasting, she didn’t really hit us where it hurt, did she?” Nolan agrees.

“This was only a warning,” Nibs says. He’s been remarkably pessimistic this evening. “They could have sent the police to Curly’s, or Sly’s, or any of our houses — between the three of them they know the addresses, and how much Dust we keep around — but they didn’t.”

“So either they’re hoping to scare us off,” I add, “Or this was just the first of many.”

We sit in a grim silence. Sly opens a can of beer with a startling hiss.

Curly says, “Well, I’m scared.”

“Me too. Pan, you’ve got to fix this.” Nibs gives me one of his looks.

“How’s he gonna do that?” Teddy scoffs, chomping down on a prawn cracker.

“I’ll tell you how,” I say slowly. I may have put my foot in it the other night, but I know Wendy Darling’s weak spots. “I apologise. Tell Darling that it was stupid of me to try to involve Jonny — he’s underage, he’s a good kid, whatever her reasons are. Cole, stop texting him.”

“Hey,” he says, “I actually quite like him, thank you very much? With or without Dust.”

Sly — he of a hundred one-night-stands — scoffs, and even Nolan looks faintly embarrassed on his twin’s behalf.

“Fine,” I amend, “stop texting him about Dust. Tell him I’m not hiring, or whatever. At least not yet.”

Curly raises his eyebrows at me. “Not yet?”

“Darling thinks she’s got the upper hand. That’s fine, she can think that, doesn’t bother me — but it’s _not true_. _She_ doesn’t pick who joins the Lost Boys; _I_ do. _She_ doesn’t control Jonny Darling’s life; _he_ does. He wants to join us, he’s very welcome to.”

“Now I get this unhealthy obsession with the Darlings,” Cole says. “You’re just a control freak.”

“In this business, Cole, you have to be.” 

### Wendy

“You really didn’t have to come all this way, Wendy,” Michael says. His breath clouds in the air as beside him, Jonny shivers and stamps his feet to keep the cold at bay.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t see you for ten days, you think I’d miss the chance to send you off?”

It’s almost six in the morning and the coach for St Barrie’s sixth form ski trip is about to depart. Most of the day students have been driven into school by their parents. My brothers, obviously, only had a five-minute walk from their dorm, but I didn’t like the idea of them standing off to one side alone, watching all their friends saying goodbye by their families. And now that I’m here, I’m doubly glad I made the effort. None of us have gone abroad since before our parents’ accident, and the thought of Jonny and Michael not being a half-hour walk from me is unsettling.

The chaperones are taking the register, and I take my chance to say farewell before they’re corralled onto the coach. I pull Jonny in for a hug, kissing both his cheeks, making him squirm in embarrassment. Just before I release him, he relaxes into the hug, gloved fingers gripping the back of my coat.

“You have fun, okay? And don’t,” I grab hold of his hand as he moves toward the coach, “Take anything the Doyle twins offer you.”

But I’m fairly sure that things are going to be okay on that front. Michael tells me that Jonny hasn’t heard anything from Cole in a couple of days. It’s safe to assume that the Lost Boys got my message.

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Alright. See you in two weeks.”

He gets onto the coach, pausing on the steps to wave once more at me.

“Bye, Wendy,” Michael says softly. He wraps his arms around me tight.

“Don’t look so worried,” I say when he pulls away, brown eyes anxious. “Enjoy it! Last chance before coursework and exams.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Jonny bangs on the window of the bus, gesturing for Michael to get on. With one last, almost wistful glance at me, he gets on. I take a few steps back to free up the space by the doors. The other students file onto the bus and cars start leaving the carpark, the parents inside content with the knowledge that their children are safely looked after. I look up at the coach, praying that my brothers will make it home in one piece. They probably will. I’m _sure_ they will.

The bus pulls away. I stand and watch as it disappears down the road, trying to ignore the terrified clench of my stomach. _They’ll be back. It’s just a skiing trip._

“I didn’t know your brothers were going on the trip,” says someone close behind.

I turn, and of course it’s Peter.

“What are you doing here?” Though Peter and his Lost Boys like to frequent the school grounds, they don’t generally turn up at this hour.

“Came to see the Doyles off,” he shrugs, as if it’s perfectly normal for a dealer to put his clients onto a school coach. “Don’t look at me like that, Darling. They’re my friends, y’know? It’s not like their parents would’ve bothered seeing them off.”

“Peter Pan, heart of gold.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and then, with a jerk of my head, I go to leave. I am not keen to talk to Peter any time soon.

“Darling, wait.”

I sigh, and pause long enough for him to catch up and walk beside me. But if he’s looking for a fight, today of all days, he’s not getting one. He says one rude thing and I’m out of there.

“Can I apologise? For what happened outside IZLAND — the things I said…I’m not proud of them.”

“Could have fooled me.” What irritated me most is that it’s true — or it was, a couple of years ago. I’d have died to be Peter Pan’s girl. And even now, there’s a little sliver of me that still thinks that way, that urges me to overlook his unsavoury qualities for the sake of his beautiful face with that incredible jawline; the lovely lines of his throat disappearing into his t-shirt; the hands I used to spend hours daydreaming about.

“I just want to clear the air. I’m not offering a… _truce_ , or anything like that. But things have been getting out of hand, these past few weeks. Don’t you think?

“Wonder what would make you say that,” I say sweetly. “Could it be all that Dust you lost a few days ago?”

He frowns, peeved.

“I hear,” I go on, “That they found the stuff in the library. Tucked between the pages of a book in the drugs section. Really, Pan.” I shake my head, despairing. “Why must you be so predictable?”

“Okay, okay. You win. And you’re right. My reasons for apologising are at least fifty percent selfish.”

“And the other half?”

“The other half is genuine. So yeah. Sorry.”

“And what are you apologising for, exactly? Implying that I’m only mean to you because I fancy you? Or trying to involve my little brother in a drug-ring? Because, trust me, one of those things is _much_ worse than the other.”

“You’re right,” he says, and I blink. Never heard that from Peter before. “That was a horrible, low-down thing for me to try. Jonny’s barely seventeen, and he’s a good kid. I shouldn’t have tried to mix him up in my mess.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Pan?”

He smiles, but doesn’t make a joke. Instead, he ploughs on with this weird, never-before-seen sincerity: “I just think I…” he pauses, bites his lip, looks away. “In a weird way I miss it? Being part of your family. Remember, when we were kids, and my parents were always abroad — and I used to stay at yours overnight? And now…it’s like you got everything in the divorce. The house, the dog, the kids…” He grins: he knows he’s exaggerating. “Jonny and Michael used to be my friends, you know? Bella and Lily, too.”

I soften, even though I don’t want to. I’ve never thought that he might pine for our childhood the same way I do. “You got all the Lost Boys, though. Even Nibs.”

“You didn’t want _them_ , though.”

“No, I didn’t.” We walk in silence for a moment, and then I add, “So you wanted to turn Jonny into a drug dealer because of _nostalgia_?”

“Well, it sounds stupid if you say it like that.” As I scowl, he hastens to clarify: “I mean, it _is_ stupid. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Okay. Well. Apology accepted, I suppose.”

We walk on, along roads we’ve known all our lives. A sad reminiscence tugs at me, just one more reason I want to leave this city: to leave the bittersweet memories behind and create newer, better ones somewhere else.

“There isn’t any way for us to go back, is there? To how we used to be?” Peter asks.

I think back to when I was eight. There’s no way I could ever recapture that innocence, and it might be even harder for Peter. And we can’t go back to how it used to be when I was in sixth form, either. We couldn’t bury our heads in the sand, pretend like the past three years never happened. Could we?

“No,” I say softly. “There isn’t.”

“So we go forward, yeah?” We stop at the crossroads opposite my apartment block. I’ll keep walking straight ahead, but Pan is going to turn right, towards wherever he lives. I press the button at the traffic lights. “We don’t have to be friendly, but no more fistfights.”

“And no more underhanded tactics,” I agree.

“Alright.”

The crossing light goes green, and I take a cautious step out onto the road.

“See you, then, Pan.”

“See you around, Darling.”

*

When I get home, Lily and Bella are darting around, getting ready for an early seminar and a morning shift, respectively. I unwind my scarf from my neck and sling my coat over the back of the sofa, suddenly bone-tired.

“Alright, Wen?” Lily says, around a mouthful of toast. “The boys set out okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I say absently. “I saw Pan outside Barrie’s.”

“Oh, God, what now?”

“I have a very busy schedule today,” Bella tells me, “but I can probably fit in an arse-kicking if needed.”

“Not needed,” I say. “He _apologised_.”

“Wonder why,” Lily scoffs, and we smile, revelling in the knowledge of a tipoff well-executed.

But when I’ve crawled back into bed for a lie in, and my flatmates have left, I’m not so sure that’s the _only_ reason Peter apologised. He’s never gone in very much for sincerity, preferring cockiness and crowing to anything vaguely emotional. I’ve never once seen him make himself vulnerable in that way before. Never knew he thought about things the same way I did — that it was even possible for him to have regrets.

I sleep fitfully, and dream about a boy I used to know when I was little, who used to take his bike out onto the street, and fly along the road as though he had wings.

 


	8. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sees me coming; turns to face me head-on, almost as if she’s been waiting for me. She seems to know I’m not here for a fight, though. I reach for her, stepping closer, and her dark eyes are burning into mine, a taunting smile on her lips.

### Peter

I’m with Nibs on Sunday night when Curly calls from the queue outside Crossbones.

“Fancy meeting me? Teddy and Sly said they’d be here but fuck knows _where_ they are. Anyway, it’s free-for-all Sunday, might get some good deals.”

Free-for-all Sundays at Crossbones means that the price of drinks rise and fall across the night. Sometimes things get as cheap as thirty pence. I shrug at Nibs, who shrugs back.

“Why not,” he says, folding down the page of his book. “Not as if we’ve anything better to do.”

Crossbones is hectic when we get there. Curly’s only just gotten to the front of the queue, and we slide in beside him as he clatters down the stairs. Nibs puts his jacket in the coat check — he’s always sensible like that — and we head in. Shots are two pounds when I join the crowd around the bar, and changing constantly. When I get to the front, I simply ask for however many drinks twenty pounds will get me. Turns out it’s three each. In unison, we take a drink and turn to survey the club. The music is loud and bright, some throwback soundtrack. A Spice Girls song starts up and a wave of recognition engulfs the crowd. A flurry of girls brush past us, eager to get to the dance floor.

“Nibs!” calls a girl about two metres along the bar. She battles towards us. “Oh, perfect, I didn’t know you’d be here tonight—” she fumbles in her purse and brings out an empty pill bottle. “My prescription needs refilling,” she says with a faux-pout.

Nibs turns to me. “Pan, do you wanna…?”

“No, no. She’s your patient.” I wave him off to do business.

“And on that note,” Curly says, “I’m off to the loos to take care of business. ‘Scuse me—”

I sigh. He was doing so well, too. Two whole days sober. I turn back to the bar to get another drink, because I’m tipsy, but not yet drunk. And what I’d really like to be is drunk. A cocktail with chunks of coloured ice in it gets me that little bit closer.

A minute or two later, I spot Teddy, taller and broader than most people in here, muscling through the crowd toward me.

“Alright Pan? Just saw Curly in the toilets — looks like we’re all out tonight.” His eyes are bright, and if I had to guess, I’d say that Curly tempted Ted into taking some Dust too.

“Sly here too then?”

“Nah, not yet. He had a _date_.”

“Ah. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Teddy chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder before moving down along the bar toward a gap in the queue.

I’m alone again for a moment in the sea of partiers, and then I spot her. Barely a glimpse of a face, halfway across the club, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. Wendy Darling.

As often happens when I see her without warning, I flounder for a second, wondering what kind of wrathful God insists on setting her in my path time and time again, just when everything was going smoothly. I wrestle my way out of the club, up onto the road, where people are clumped together, smoking in the raw late-night air.

I shake a cigarette from its pack, and before I can dig for my lighter, someone is holding one out for me. I take it.

“Sly. Hey.”

“Hi, Pan.”

He looms before me, strangely insubstantial in the cumulative cigarette smoke. Though it’s late October, all he’s wearing is a threadbare-thin shirt. Bruises bloom along his neck and across his collarbone.

“Are those good bruises, or bad?” I ask, peering at him.

He smirks. “Good. _Very_ good.”

I cut my eyes away, and he laughs.

“Jesus, Pan, don’t be such a prude.”

“That’s me,” I say drily. “Innocent. Virginal.”

“You may as well be! When was the last time you had sex? It’s bad for your image, y’know.”

“My image?” I repeat.

He looks at me over his roll-up. “People want to buy from the guy who’s got it all. The guy living the life they wish they had. That includes, for most people, a lot of sex.” He shrugs, as if he doesn’t make the rules, he only follows them. Yeah, right.

“The problem is,” I spread my arms wide with a grin, “That none of the girls I see around are good enough for me.”

“Other way round, dirt-bag. Now listen,” — he plucks the almost-spent cigarette from my fingers — “Get back in there. Don’t come out ’til you’ve gotten off with someone.”

He shoves me in the direction of the club. I turn back to raise my middle finger in salute, but he’s already distracted, offering his lighter to a cluster of uni students who seem to have lost theirs.

I go to the bar and order a drink. The bartender, one of my customers, winks, and makes me a few more. I toss them back one after the other, watching disinterestedly as other people order. Fuck if I’m actually taking Sly up on his challenge, but I can’t deny it’d be nice to get out there and meet some people who aren’t drug dealers, school-kids, or both.

Further along the bar, a girl sips at her drink demurely. I can pinpoint the exact moment the alcohol hits me, and I feel like I could walk up to her; have her eating out of my palm in minutes. But I don’t want her. I don’t know what I want.

Working my way across the dance-floor, I find myself right by the speakers. The noise is so loud and distorted up close that it’s just a drumbeat, curling up in my chest and forcing my heart into time with it. I love the feeling: like I’m one with this club, feeling its rhythms and tides.

I’m contemplating my final drink, something sweet and potent, when I see Wendy again. None of her horrific friends are with her it seems: it’s just her, alone, hands lifted up to the lights pulsing above, spinning in slow circles. I put my glass down on the speaker. Then — and this is a testament to how recklessly fucked I am — I walk towards her.

She sees me coming; turns to face me head-on, almost as if she’s been waiting for me. She seems to know I’m not here for a fight, though. I reach for her, stepping closer, and her dark eyes are burning into mine, a taunting smile on her lips.

The song mutates into something low and dirty with a pulse that vibrates through my body and along my fingers as I spread them across the warm skin of Wendy’s waist. We’re close, closer than I can remember us ever being before. People jostle us on all sides; just when we’ve settled into a rhythm, we’re knocked out of sync by outside forces.

Her hands rest on my shoulders, forcing me to keep time with her, and her fingers curl around the side of my neck, her thumb on the pulse below my jaw. I blink slowly, unwilling to lose sight of her in case she vanishes. If either of us speak, I know that this careful, charged connection between us will break, never to be mentioned again. And I want to extend this moment: Wendy’s hot gaze on mine, my hands pressed against her back, the numbing, isolating music separating us from reality.

Her lips part, and she closes her eyes. The way she tips her head back just enough that I can see her throat looks a lot like trust,. Then I pull her closer, so I can’t see her anymore, only feel the line of her pressed against me. My hands skim lower, and hers glide higher, into my hair, tugging restlessly, insistently, and the sensation shivers all the way down my spine and deep inside.

Then a new song begins: a transcendent, upbeat tune that can’t reasonably be slow-danced to. I know that the moment has truly gone when a pair of girls in sparkly dresses shriek in recognition of Wendy. They grab her by the hands and drag her away to dance. She casts a rueful glance in my direction before forgetting about me altogether. If only it were that easy for all of us.

I shoulder my way across the dance floor to the bar. I spot Sly and Curly down at the quieter end. Curly, swaying slightly, slings an arm around my shoulder. This is, I think, less out of affection and more to steady his footing.

“Hey Curl,” I say affectionately. “You okay?”

“Dandy,” he says. He drums his fingers on the bar, looking around. “Seen Teddy?”

“Is he not with you?”

Sly shakes his head. He hands something that is almost certainly not money to the bartender, who pockets it and slides a trio of shots towards us. I down mine in one, repressing a wince at the burn in my throat.

“I’m guessing,” Sly says, peering at my empty glass, “That you failed to find a good time.”

“Shut up, Sly,” I mutter. I spin on my heel, colliding with a girl who’s just collected her drink from the bar. Jäeger soaks my shirt, dripping onto my shoes.

“Sorry, darlin’,” the girl says in a sweet, husky voice, audible somehow over the racket. She teeters on her heels, making a half-hearted attempt to wring out her dress.

“My fault,” I watch as she gives up, and slams her empty glass back down onto the bar. I’m hyper-aware of Curly and Sly watching us. “Buy you a replacement drink?”

She beams up at me. “I’m not one to turn down that kinda offer,” she says.

I lean forward to catch the attention of one of the bartenders. Sly leans into my line of vision, mouthing something I can’t interpret. The bartender nods at me and I hold up two fingers. She waves me off when I go to pay.

“We’ll settle your tab later,” she says.

I take the drinks, and hand one to the girl. She takes a sip, her eyes on me.

“I know who you are,” she announces, her voice ringing. “You’re Pan. Pankhurst,” she adds, in case I don't know my own pseudonym.

“And who are _you_?”

“I’m Jill.” She smiles and I notice a silver stud in the middle of her tongue. “I heard,” she continues, slipping her arm around me, “that you can hook a girl up.”

“He can do more than hook you up.” A heavy hand claps me on the shoulder. “He can hook up _with_ you,” Teddy continues, laughing at his poor play on words.

“Fuck off, Teddy.” I shrug him off. “Sorry, he’s wasted,” I say to Jill.

“Yeah, I can see that. Hi.”

Teddy looks at me, unaware of Jill’s interested gaze. He smiles unconcernedly. He looks like a younger version of himself — a version that, now, only ever comes out when he’s high.

“Where’s Nibs, do you know?”

“Hm?” Teddy shakes himself from his daze.

“Nibs. Where?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him.”

I sigh.

“He’ll be around somewhere,” Sly says, unperturbed. “Relax — have another drink — go dance.”

“Alright. If Teddy accidentally starts a fight, it’s your responsibility.” I point at him, before turning back to my new acquaintance. “Jill, any chance you smoke?”

“One of my many vices.” She smiles up at me.

“Excellent. Let’s get out of here.” 


End file.
